New Year's Day
by Pearl Gatsby
Summary: I want your midnights / but I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day :: Hermione wakes up in Malfoy Manor the morning after Draco's annual New Year's party. One-shot. M just to be safe. Post-Hogwarts, EWE.


**I took the first line of this song like a writing prompt:** _ **There's glitter on the floor after the party.**_ **I can't get it out of my head.**

 **The "M" is just to be cautious—sexual content hinted at more than anything.**

 **By ways of disclaimer, I don't own Draco, Hermione, or TSwift's "New Year's Day," nor do I claim to. Borrowing them all for a moment, at no profit to myself other than warm fuzzies.**

 **. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

 _I want your midnights_

 _But I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day_

 **. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

Hermione woke, still dressed, rumpled, under a giant down comforter. She shifted around in the bed, trying to figure out what she was wearing and why she was there: black tights, rose-colored dress, her flats on the floor. The room: a bedroom somewhere still in Malfoy Manor. Right. New Year's.

The house was dead-quiet and the sun was shining in the windows—it had been a few oddly warm and dry days in Britain, no snow, no sleet, just a brisk chill and a bright blue sky. She didn't recognize this bedroom, and it didn't have any distinguishing features or particular signs that it belonged to any one person—not that more than one human person even inhabited the manor these days. And the house elves, who were all free and had taken an extended holiday break, wouldn't have been suited to a room with amenities this big.

Hermione climbed out of bed, slightly dizzy from the sudden movement but otherwise fine. She hadn't had much to drink the night before—if anything, even less than most of her old friends. Draco Malfoy had once again hosted a New Year's gathering for her class and all they were closest to, plus most of the Ministry who cared to come. It had been a substantial gathering, mostly of younger faces, mostly of young War veterans in the way that such things had been ever since the final victory over Voldemort. They were proper adults now, mid-twenties, and tensions over who had fought for which side were finally starting to melt among those who were still out in the world.

As to those who weren't, it didn't particularly matter. Several of them were at Azkaban, young and old—former classmates alongside their parents. Lucius Malfoy was, of course, in Azkaban, and Narcissa in St. Mungo's. There were rumors she'd committed herself, that she couldn't stand to live in the house anymore, that she'd thought it would make life easier for Draco. Hermione wasn't so sure that was the case, but as far as she could tell, Draco was handling it.

There was a bathroom connected to the bedroom; after pulling the comforter back up and righting the bed, Hermione stepped in for a moment to freshen up. When she stepped out she noticed her long-forgotten coat folded neatly over the back of a chair and went to retrieve it. Draco must have found it, she thought distractedly.

She and Draco had been colleagues now for several years at the Ministry of Magic. They tolerated each other. Hermione slipped her shoes on, and her cheeks heated as she thought of him. _Well. Perhaps "tolerated" is an understatement_.

Hermione exited the bedroom into a hallway that looked like every other hallway in the house, wondering how to get where she was going—not that she had a destination in mind. Part of her was ready to leave, to escape what had happened the night before, but the true Gryffindor part was hoping that she'd stumble upon Draco on her way out.

She looked back into the bedroom momentarily—only the side of the bed she'd slept on had looked disturbed. That meant he hadn't followed her—that, probably, he had brought her there, dropped her off, retrieved her coat.

That he hadn't stayed with her—well, that was something she preferred not to think about.

Hermione closed the door to the bedroom and followed the hallway to the left. She'd guessed well; soon the corridor opened out into a large foyer that led into the library, a room where she'd spent at least half the evening. She knew if she followed the grand staircase downstairs, the room below was the ballroom, the main home base of the party.

The doors to the library were still open; the house was still. Hermione peered in and saw that some of the guests hadn't been as courteous or careful as she: the room was sprinkled with a few odd papers, napkins, and empty butterbeer bottles. It was a shame to see a library in such a condition, so Hermione stepped in and got to work, leaving her coat draped over another armchair as she patrolled around collecting the mess.

If she exited the library and took the hallway to the left, she now knew, she'd find another staircase at the end. She'd found it last night, followed it down, feeling for all the world with each step that she was stepping back into the past. The second staircase wasn't exactly something Hermione remembered, but she'd sensed it, her intuition pinging, bad memories pushing themselves to the forefront of her mind.

She'd never endeavored to explore Malfoy Manor before last night, though she'd been in attendance at several Ministry functions held there over the last few years. On the one hand, she'd been thinking for some time about looking for _that_ parlor, but last night she'd had extra incentive to escape the festivities. Ron and Lavender had taken advantage of the occasion to formally announce their engagement—which had been a surprise to exactly no one who had had the misfortune of running across Lavender in the past week. She'd been parading the ring around and making a lot of unnecessary hand gestures before swearing anyone who "noticed" it to "secrecy."

Hermione had now collected enough detritus that she needed a place to store it. She located her handbag, shrunk to a size that allowed it to fit neatly in her coat pocket, and reached down within until she extracted a plastic Muggle trash sack. "That'll have to do," she muttered to herself, fluffing the bag open, depositing the garbage within, and propping it up against a chair as she continued her search. It wasn't as if she was jealous of Lavender being with Ron—that had been happening for several years now, after she and Ron had called it quits, and she was rather amicable with him. Lavender, on the other hand, still seemed convinced that Hermione's one goal in life was to steal Ron away from her, a thought she spread to anyone who would listen—to the effect that, after the announcement, Hermione had been constantly bombarded by people asking her if she was okay or (on the more malicious side) if she was regretting the split. Even as the midnight countdown drew nearer and nearer, Hermione had had the distinct feeling that if she didn't soon escape the gathering she would lose her mind.

And so she'd gone wandering. And so she'd taken the second stairway, thinking in the back of her head that she'd just follow it back down the hallway into the library, that hopefully escaping via that route would keep the other guests from following her around to ask prying questions…

 **.**

The hallway below was dark, and the foreboding that had been creeping up on Hermione on the way down the staircase was nearly suffocating her. She lit just the tip of her wand and saw that, while there was dim light from the other foyer far at the end of the hall, there were few rooms off this particular hallway—notably only one room to the left, with double doors a ways up ahead. Just seeing the color of the wallpaper gave Hermione a sick feeling, and she knew—this was _that_ place.

She'd crept toward the entrance, steeling herself, taking shallow breaths as she approached it. The double doors were tightly locked, and as she stood before them she felt the magic wards rolling off of them. It was something strong sealing up this room.

She knew nothing would come of it, but she lifted a hand to one knob, stopping before she touched it. There was no explanation for why she wanted to return to this room. Or maybe there was a natural one—maybe it was that she hoped to conquer it, to set foot inside and show it who was boss. It was just a _room_ , after all.

The hand she held in front of the knob trembled, and so did the light from her wand; she was shaking in spite of herself. They'd all been through therapy, all for varying but similar reasons, and Hermione had come to sit with her memories. In all the times she'd been to Malfoy Manor since the War—even tonight, even in every room and hallway except for here—she'd felt perfectly fine. She'd braced herself, expecting the fear to sit in, but she'd felt nothing. But now, reaching for the door, there was no stopping the physical reaction she had to this one particular spot. Something in her _knew_.

"Granger?"

She jumped in spite of herself, pulling her hand back. Draco was nearly upon her now, coming down the hall form the direction of the party. She hadn't even noticed the sound of his footsteps—granted, on plush rugs that lined the hardwood floors, but it seemed she was slipping.

"Ah—Draco. Malfoy." She added the last name as an afterthought, forgetting nearly that she had an illusion to maintain, i.e. that she _wasn't_ hopelessly enamored with him.

"Are you lost?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. He'd flicked his wand at the two nearest lamps, which had come to life, if dimly, to illuminate their section of the hallway.

Hermione cast around for a way to respond, and Draco considered her for a moment, his expression neutral. Hermione had been learning the ins and outs of that expression, the tiny tells—now that Draco didn't spend all his time giving everyone dirty looks, he'd schooled his face into a neutral mask. But after some time and careful observation, Hermione could note the tiniest upturn of his lips, the slightest brightening of his eyes, the subtle set of his jaw. None of those applied right now; Draco was simply appraising her. In the end, Hermione shrugged, the motion small but one she knew he'd notice.

Draco gave a short nod to her response. He swallowed. "Well," he turned toward the door, his wand at the ready. "Does this mean you'd like to go in?"

Hermione put out the light at the end of her wand, as it betrayed the way her hand was shaking. "Yes," she said in her professional voice, "I believe I would."

"Very well," Draco said, his face still neutral. He muttered something as he moved his wand, and Hermione heard some groaning and shifting from within. "Wards on the doors," he explained. "It's all been gutted and secured. What you're hearing is part of the securement."

When it was quiet again Draco's hand went to the knob, but he stopped there. Hermione looked up from his hand into his face, seeing now the aching sadness in his eyes. He wasn't trying to conceal it—his whole face gave away grief. "Are you certain?" he asked levelly, his voice low.

"Please," Hermione said.

Draco opened the door.

The room was lit only by moonlight and the weak light coming in the hallway—it was long, and large, just as Hermione remembered, and gutted as Draco had said. The windows were boarded up, moonlight leaking in only through cracks between the boards; the walls were blank—even the wallpaper and paint had been stripped away; the floors were new, a different color of wood. Hermione stepped in, one foot in front of the other, and lit her wand again, raising it to the ceiling. She walked slowly across the room, searching for the pattern of paint and cracks that was forever seared into her memory. And she found it—one long, thin fissure, accented in a very specific way by the textured paint strokes that surrounded it.

Hermione stood under the spot, her wand hand fully trembling, and brought her hand to her mouth without even noticing. She looked up at that part of the ceiling, feeling dizzy and detached—remembering the hard wood against her back, the tremors of shock that alternated with the searing pain of Cruciatus curse and Bellatrix's knife.

When it was all too much she extinguished her wand and dropped her head, covering her face with the same hand that had covered her mouth. She heard footsteps approaching on the hardwood floor—she'd nearly forgotten Draco was there. She wasn't crying, but she tried her best to school her face back into a neutral expression.

"Granger," Draco had said softly, putting one hand lightly on her shoulder, as if he expected her to pull away. "You don't know—" his voice broke—"how sorry I am." His voice was thick now, the most emotion she'd heard out of him since they'd begun working together. "I was so scared. I tried to delay her, tried to absorb some of her anger or distract it, but…"

"You were just a child," Hermione said, looking up. She could only half-see Draco's shape in the moonlight, couldn't locate his face. She found the hand he rested on her shoulder, covered it with her own. "We all were."

Draco's skin was warm, warmer than her own, and they stayed like that a moment. Then he withdrew his hand and moved forward, enveloping her gingerly in his arms, folding his other arm across her back and resting his chin against her head, briefly. When Hermione moved her arms to accept the embrace Draco drew back, taking with him the heavenly smells of his soap and cologne.

It was awkward, his gesture. There was no denying that. But Hermione felt a bit lighter for it, a bit more full of hope, and suddenly she began to feel that perhaps she could broach the topic she was always on lately—the topic of the two of them, and what might be if they were to spend more time together exclusively.

"Shall we?" Draco gestured at the door—or at least appeared to in the dim light—and Hermione exited the room, waiting for him out in the hallway. He pulled the doors closed behind him and took a few moments to lock them up, which gave Hermione a few moments to try to scramble together a plan.

She was reeling from the smell of him, from the feeling of his strong arm on her, his muscular chest—features she'd noticed on him in small ways, here and there, when he wore a shirt that was perhaps too tight or played in the annual intramural Ministry-wide Quidditch tournament. This past year at the latter Hermione had followed another coworker into the warming tent for hot cocoa and been rewarded, quite unexpectedly, with the briefest glimpse of Draco's naked chest as he'd pulled off one layer and unwittingly tugged all the others up along with it. Hermione had dreamed of that image for weeks.

And they worked together, and often their departments crossed paths, so it wasn't as if Hermione and Draco never spoke. She'd been dreaming up reasons to see him in his office—or to walk past the door, which he often left open—for at least several months now. If she was honest with herself, the infatuation had begun well over a year ago when she'd finally admitted to herself that he was still one of the handsomest wizards she'd ever met, if a bit stoic. Her fledgling efforts to get to know him had blossomed into an easy professional friendship to the point that they smiled and sometimes stopped to chat if they passed each other's offices or crossed paths in other places in the building. They'd even agreed to pick up coffee together once, though only because they were already walking out the door at the same time and planned to turn straight around and head back into their offices.

Still, as Draco turned around from locking the door Hermione realized with a start that she was standing awfully close to him; and when he didn't move away, she began to hear her own heartbeat in her ears.

"Herm—er, Granger," he'd started.

"No—" Hermione lifted a finger to his lips, not even thinking, so that even she was surprised when she touched him there. She pulled the finger back as if she'd touched a hot stove, but she endeavored on to cover up the awkward gesture, "'Hermione' is fine."

Noise from down the hallway startled them—the live band blaring a fanfare to get everyone's attention. A voice boomed over the microphone, enough for Hermione to make out that they were preparing for midnight.

"It appears we're missing the countdown," she said nervously, cutting her eyes down the hall and back to Draco.

He didn't move, looking down at her with his usual neutral mask. "Seems so," he agreed. "Are you disappointed? Someone in there you hoped to snog?"

Hermione's lips parted, but no words came out. Down the hallway, the party counted: " _Ten!... Nine!... Eight!... Seven!..._ "

Draco looked away from her eyes, ever so briefly, to glance down at her lips. Back up again.

" _Six!... Five!... Four!..._ "

Hermione swallowed and moved her face the slightest bit closer to his, nearly forgetting to breathe.

" _Three!... Two!... One! Happy new year!_ "

Down the hall the crowd was cheering, but without really knowing which of them had moved first Hermione and Draco were kissing as if they'd been waiting their whole lives for it—desperately, roughly, fingers running through each other's hair and bodies melding together. Hermione had one hand at Draco's fringe and another on his back, tugging him close to her; Draco had a hand at the back of Hermione's head and another rubbing sensually along her side, up and down in the spot where her waist flared into her hips. Draco kissed her like he was starving, and hope sparked in Hermione that maybe—just maybe—he wanted this with the same intensity that she did.

Before she knew it was she pressed up against the wall, caged by his arms on either side of her but with no intention of escaping. From then it was something of a blur—she remembered he'd taken her hand, leading her back up the stairs and into a room on the same floor as the library, some other sitting room with a couch. And what a glorious couch, to be there just when they needed it. They'd taken turns being on top, lavishing and teasing the other with attention—Hermione nuzzling into Draco's neck, kissing all the exposed flesh she could find at his collar, pushing her breasts into Draco's eager hands as he'd run them up and down the curves of her body; Draco grinding his hips into hers, still clothed as they were, teasing her with his wanting as he nipped along her cleavage, grinning wolfishly as she gasped.

But then it had stopped. Hermione had switched on top again and felt, suddenly, that everything had slowed, that Draco had become still. He'd found her face with both of his hands and kissed her on the lips, gently, before moving to help her off of him in spite of the fact that that wasn't where she was trying to go. Hermione had had no choice but to comply, confused by Draco's actions, and he'd made some vague excuse she couldn't even fully recall—something about wanting to check on the party. Time had become immaterial; she had no idea how long they'd been kissing, and so she'd complied, feeling frustrated and a bit nervous. In the time she'd spent waiting for him, she must have fallen asleep. Her next memory was waking up in bed.

 **.**

The library was clean now, though as Hermione dropped more bottles into the trash sack she wondered if her revisiting the memory of the night before hadn't caused her to lose focus and miss something.

As she gave the room another once-over, collecting the sack along with her coat, she heard a noise from downstairs, like a crash of glass bottles. It sounded as if someone else was cleaning up; immediately, her heart jumped into her throat. She exited the library feeling as if she could scarcely breathe, nervous energy igniting a blush on her cheeks and putting a tiny tremble into her hands.

At the bottom of the stairs she could see that it was, in fact, Draco in the ballroom, collecting as she had bits of paper and empty bottles. He was dressed casually, his back to her as he moved toward the far side of the room—sweatpants and an old Quidditch jersey, plus what looked like house-shoes.

As Hermione padded toward the entrance, her sensible flats quiet on the hardwood floor, she noticed that it seemed someone had shot gold glitter across the room. _Bugger_ , she thought, imagining cleaning _that_ up—no woman alive, wizard or Muggle, had discovered the trick for getting rid of glitter. She cleared her throat delicately and Draco turned around, surprised.

"I got a head start with the library," Hermione indicated the trash bag, leaving her coat on a side-table and bringing it toward Draco. She crossed to where he was standing and held the bag open for him to deposit what he'd collected so far.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, his confusion over the bag trumping any awkwardness, even as he dropped his trash inside.

"Had it in my purse."

"You witches and your purses," Draco shook his head. He went to take the bag from her. "I appreciate the help, Granger." The sides of his mouth curled into the tiniest of smiles—of course she noticed—but it didn't get all the way to his eyes.

Hermione swallowed, nervous, and Draco turned away, back to the task at hand. "I've got it from here. Please, feel free to take your leave—"

"I-I've been thinking!" Hermione cut him off, her voice loud and nervous. "About last night, and—"

"You don't have to say anything," Draco said, turning back toward her. He had moved several feet away as she was talking, and Hermione had a hard time deciphering this expression. "I know it was a trying night for you, and I hope you'll forgive me for taking advantage."

He turned away again. Hermione was left sputtering. "Taking advantage?"

Draco sighed. He continued to move across the room. When finally he spoke, he simply raised his voice, not bothering to look in Hermione's direction. "The Weasel announcing his engagement."

"What about it? What does that have to do with us…?"

Now Draco paused, looking in her direction, though he was clear across the room. "Granger. Once you go home and rest for a bit you'll realize full well that last night was a fit of passion and frustration over your stupid ex announcing his engagement." He turned away to pick up another bottle. "You needn't worry that I'll be trying to pursue something with you."

Hermione experienced several emotions at once, then. Her heart dropped fully into the pit of her stomach, and tears rose up in her eyes, but the emotion that came out was anger. She yanked an empty bottle off a nearby serving table and stomped in Draco's direction.

"When—" _stomp_. "Is—" _stomp_. "The wizarding world—" _stomp stomp stomp_. "Going to ever stopasking me [ _stomp stomp stomp stomp_ ] about _Ronald Weasley_?" She yanked the trash bag from Draco's grasp, opening it wide and slamming the bottle in like some sort of deranged javelin-thrower. There was a sound of breaking glass, and Hermione seemed to snap out of it the tiniest bit, looking to Draco in surprise.

He regarded her with a carefully neutral expression. As per usual.

"You listen to me, Draco Malfoy," she seethed, pointing a finger in his face, "I've had it up to here with everyone assuming what I feel. I've had it up to here with Lavender's stupid rumors! So don't you—or anyone else—try to tell me why I kissed you last night, because I know full well why I kissed you!"

"And?" Draco asked coolly.

"And!" Hermione pointed again but then deflated quickly, feeling a blush rising on her cheeks. She dropped her hand slowly. "It's because I—I wanted to."

"Granger." Draco took her hand gently in one of his. "Why don't you go on home, and get some good rest—"

"Don't patronize me!" Hermione pulled her hand away. "I'm serious."

"I can assure you, we're hardly on the same page," Draco stated, his expression darkening.

"How so?"

Draco didn't answer; he just looked at her with something like a warning with his eyes.

"So—" Hermione took an involuntary step back. "So you're saying—it was nothing to you?" Her chest constricted. "I—I know I heard rumors that you were the playboy of Hogwarts, but with—with all the time Harry spent following you back then, I didn't really think…" The tears were back in Hermione's eyes, and as Draco regarded her coldly, she felt them spill over. She turned to leave, feeling like she couldn't breathe, suppressing the sobs before he could hear her. She hurried out of the ballroom through the foyer and out the ridiculous doors of the manor, headed for the Apparition point by the gate.

She was nearly there when she heard Draco calling out to her and turned—he was carrying her coat, which had her bag inside. Were it not for the fact that her bag contained the keys to her apartment, she would have left then and there. Instead she waited, wiping hot tears from her eyes, unable to hold it together.

"Even if," Draco said, holding the coat just out of her reach as he approached, panting slightly, "—even if it wasn't nothing, even if I wanted this… it would never work." The storm on his face told the rest of the story—his "if" wasn't really an "if."

"Don't give up before we've even begun," Hermione swatted away more tears. "Stupid prat." She could see that Draco had lost the mask of his expression, that his face was now a mix of several different emotions she couldn't properly identify.

He opened her coat so that she could shrug into it—there was a bit of a breeze and she was certainly shivering in her sleeveless dress—and she obliged. When she was covered she turned back around, grabbing his upper arm to keep him from leaving. "It's over a year now I've been wanting this, to get to know you, Ron or no Ron. I—I don't know what to say to convince you, Draco, but last night was a coincidence, not a catalyst. I'd hoped you had enough sense not to believe the likes of Lavender Brown."

Draco closed his eyes, shaking his head softly.

This wasn't the response Hermione expected. More tears threatened as she added, "B-but… if it really means nothing… be clear with me. Say it outright."

When Draco opened his eyes again, they were a bit watery; he smiled weakly down at her in apology. "Please, Hermione," he said in a soft voice, "come back inside and have breakfast with me. I'd rather like to start today over."

Hermione leaned up and kissed him. He responded in kind—more gentle than the night prior—and Hermione left another soft kiss at the edge of his mouth when she pulled away. "Not the _whole_ day," she corrected, squeezing his arm where she still held it. "Maybe just the last hour?"

"Good call," Draco patted her hand. "I found the _early_ morning rather brilliant."


End file.
